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Leaves of Grass (1860)
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9.
| HOURS continuing long, sore and heavy-hearted, |
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Hours of the dusk, when I withdraw to a lonesome
and unfrequented spot, seating myself, leaning my face in my hands; |
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Hours sleepless, deep in the night, when I go forth,
speeding swiftly the country roads, or through the city streets, or pacing miles and miles, sti- fling plaintive cries; |
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Hours discouraged, distracted—for the one I cannot
content myself without, soon I saw him content himself without me; |
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Hours when I am forgotten, (O weeks and months are
passing, but I believe I am never to forget!) |
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Sullen and suffering hours! (I am ashamed—but it
is useless—I am what I am;) |
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Hours of my torment—I wonder if other men ever
have the like, out of the like feelings? |
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Is there even one other like me—distracted—his
friend, his lover, lost to him? |
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Is he too as I am now? Does he still rise in the morn-
ing, dejected, thinking who is lost to him? and at night, awaking, think who is lost? |
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Does he too harbor his friendship silent and endless?
harbor his anguish and passion? |
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Does some stray reminder, or the casual mention of a
name, bring the fit back upon him, taciturn and deprest? |
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Does he see himself reflected in me? In these hours,
does he see the face of his hours reflected? |